


o storm of us

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Established Relationship, Inspired by Music, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Pride, Self-Indulgent, Semi-Public Sex, gratuitous use of glitter, porn with a little backstory, porn with a little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 17:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15199883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: So you've just managed to survive your first Pride parade, and now it's raining, and the world is still all rainbows and rain, and -- what could possibly compare to the high of that seven-colored march?(If you're Noctis Lucis Caelum, the answer might just be found on a rooftop in the storm.)





	o storm of us

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my dear [Shadi](https://twitter.com/JunkyardSHADi), and inspired by -- a very long list of musical references, but let's go with [Freedom '90 x Cups](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COUHwzo3S1E) for now.

Jitter, jitter, in his nerves, but not because he’s afraid or because he’s angry or because he’s running away from something -- confrontation is something Noctis has learned to be good at, out of sheer necessity, after the whole hoopla of kicking his duplicitous uncle’s ass in the boardroom and out of the country, and there are still way too many people who think he’s an upstart and an impetuous freak and he’s been carrying this shit around with him for the better part of the last ten years, but no, he’s not jittering because of -- bad shit or a hangover or three days straight trying to wrangle the family business.

No, this is the kind of jitter that comes with very sore feet, with glitter lingering in the crooks of his elbows and the backs of his ears, the lines in the palms of his hands, the stubble along his jawline. This is the kind of jitter that comes after too much smiling, and clapping until his hands and arms and shoulders hurt, and yelling raucous raunchy poetry and melodies back at grinning fist-waving singers. This is the kind of jitter that follows smiling and crying all at once, and the drape of rainbow-striped banners over his shoulders.

He hums as he goes up the last flight of stairs and the confines of cement and steel clang with the impact of his broken voice, his rasping breaths, and -- okay, that’s embarrassing, he’s making a total hash of the song and he can’t even remember half the lyrics. His friends have been making fun of his sheer inability to sing for all of their lives, but right now he’s jittering and grinning and he doesn’t care: not even when he finally gets to the rooftop exit and he kicks the door open, shriek of stressed steel hinges and -- 

Crack of thunder overhead and the fanning streaking bolts of lightning, tearing through the purple-polluted sky. The smears of rainbow-brazen spotlights in smog-choked night, and the sputtering hiss of rain driven on the wind. The cold kiss of it that pulls his sleeves askew, that rifles roughly through his hair. Heedless icy air that crackles along his skin and his day-worn nerves and -- the thread of song that fights away that tuneless lonely cry of the wind.

He swipes rain out of his eyes and turns the last corner in the winding passages of the roof, out and to the foot of neon tubes twisted into sculpture, unlit tonight in favor of those persistent floodlights and the seven bands of color like a brave show through the teeth of the summer storm. To the unmistakable beacon of golden-blond hair in gelled spikes and tufts, to the startling blue-violet of hectic eyes.

“Of course you’re here,” Noctis says, once he ducks beneath the dubious shelter of the steel-and-rivet scaffolding, the framework holding up the sculpture. “Do I want to know how you got back so quickly?”

Grin, lovely, lopsided, and lightning-flash catching in the hoops decorating the outer curve of the ear, and the chain connecting those hoops. Lightning that lingers on the chain-choker ringing a freckled throat, that catches the smudged remnants of vivid scarlet eyeliner and lipstick to match. “Nah. Maybe Aranea will tell you, if you ask her real nice,” and as he watches, Prompto rakes his gloved hands through his own hair, causing the whole style to quickly and prettily collapse. 

“Hard pass,” Noctis says as he seizes Prompto by the choker and by the wide leather band clasped around his wrist, and hauls him in for a kiss, and their teeth clack together only because Prompto is laughing into his mouth. 

“I thought for sure Pride would wipe you out.”

“I am wiped out, I’m on my last legs,” he says. “Came up here because I wanted you in bed. My bed.”

Chain-ring, chain-song, faint with the way Prompto shakes his head. “Which is where I’m going, but not right now, okay? Just let me think, a little. Please.”

“Okay,” and Noctis is too old to pout and he knows it, and he does it anyway, before he sits down more or less on Prompto’s boots. 

Which move away from him, and he doesn’t complain only because Prompto sits down next to him, and slings an arm around his shoulders, hauls him roughly close. 

The rain drifts around them, wind blowing it hard into their faces and then away to fall down the other side of the building, and again he sweeps the cold water from his face.

Jitter in his voice, he hears it, when he says, “You were amazing out there today.”

“Was I? You know who did the heavy lifting,” is the amused answer, only drowned out in bits and pieces by the muttering thunder overhead. 

“Yeah but I’d never heard you sing like that before.”

“Give Iggy some credit,” and he hears Prompto laugh. “He had to threaten me to get on stage at all. I mean that more or less literally, where the hell does he get off waving knives at me?”

Noctis laughs, too. “I dunno. You’ve seen him do it to me.”

“Still the funniest thing ever, when it’s not me.”

“I know.” He sobers, a little. “That was the song you were working on when I met you, right?”

“About half of it, yeah,” and he sees and feels the nod, because Prompto’s laid his head on his shoulder. “Too angry, wasn’t it.”

“It was the right kind of angry then. It’s the right kind of angry now.” Hang the rain, he thinks, as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes and sighs. Jitters fading away, into exhaustion, into the weary kind of bracing that he does with every waking moment. The shoring up of his emotions, of the walls he builds around his mind and his heart -- walls with hidden doors, so he can let a few trusted friends in.

He lets Prompto in, when he mutters, “If I copied your words and wrote them in a letter and left them on my dad’s grave, would you get mad at me?”

“I’d write you a fresh copy, if that was what you wanted to do with it.”

“Thank you.” Small words, inadequate.

“And your mom’s? What do you want to put on it?” The words are punctuated with swift soft kisses along his cheek and his temple and his ear. The movement of Prompto, insistently closer, and Noctis helps him along -- lets him climb practically into his lap.

And as soon as Prompto’s properly situated he answers, quiet and firm, because he’s not budging on this one, he’s not going to let anyone move him any more: “Selfie.”

“There were a lot of those, you wanna be more specific.”

Noctis laughs a little more. “Not one from today.”

“Then which one?”

He presses a kiss to the corner of Prompto’s eye, where beneath the eyeliner and the rain-spatter on freckles he can see the nearly-faded remnants of a shiner. 

If he looks at his own knuckles he’ll still be able to see the scuff-marks, where he’d only been the first to haul a man in a blood-red cap off a boy cowering on a street corner, where he’d swung for a wild haymaker that had miraculously dropped the man right in his tracks. 

And Prompto had earned the shiner, shielding the boy with his own snarl and his own body, and then other people had stepped in to make sure it was all a one-sided affair, and Prompto and Noctis had driven the boy to the nearest ER and sat with him through X-rays and fussing nurses and the kind firm look in the social worker’s eyes, the naked relief in the boy’s.

So he’s thinking of the selfie he’d taken of them kissing in relief, just next to the ER doors, for a moment the world and the blaring ambulance-lights muted around them because they, too, had been leaning on each other, adrenaline crackling off their nerves and their bones and their bloodied fists.

He tells Prompto that, and his reward is -- a kiss in the here and now, proprietary. The shove of hips, downward, that makes him hiss and arch shamelessly up and bare his throat -- and he moans, and the thunder kindly drowns him out, as Prompto bites at the dip between his collar bones. 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” words felt more than heard this time, words and the fierce heat of Prompto’s tongue licking at his jawline. “You think your mom would be okay with that though?”

“She knew,” he says, shortly, because Prompto’s hands are on the move, are rucking his shirt up. Rough fingers slotting neatly against his ribs, and thumbs meeting right over his sternum. “Or at least she’d guessed, before I ever figured it out for myself.”

“You never told me that.” Blink, blink, Prompto’s eyes in the shadow of the storm as it passes at last and now Noctis can almost see stars in the clearing sky, past the fleeing clouds. 

“You sure?”

“I would remember,” and he sees the ghostly line of Prompto’s smirk, that vanishes as he falls back in and Noctis sighs into the next kiss, into the next kisses. 

“’Kay,” he says, when they break for air. “Well. Not okay because -- pretty sure I did say something. Family history and all that. I mean, I don’t have all the stories but I’m pretty sure mom dated women too. How else do you think I know Cindy?”

“No way, your mom and Cindy’s? Whoa.”

“Go ask her. Cindy, I mean. Tomorrow. Or, not now at least,” and it’s Noctis’s turn to nip at Prompto’s chin, at the underside of his jaw. “I’m right here, you know.”

“I know,” and Prompto is laughing, low and dark and sweet -- the kind of laughter that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

And he groans, shamelessly, when Prompto catches both of his wrists in one hand, when Prompto forces his wrists together at the small of his back -- groan that’s stifled by a kiss, hungry, and he strains up against Prompto, fighting to get lost in the moment, in their bodies sliding against each other, chest to chest, hip to hip.

Prompto’s free hand remains on his chest, a grounding weight, but not for long -- because he’s thumbing smaller and smaller circles over one nipple and then the other, sensations running riot along Noctis’s nerves so he can’t catch his breath.

Easier and easier to fall into the beat of Prompto’s body against his, the grind of him, Noctis hissing wordless encouragement and also a wordless plea to be released -- he can’t get any leverage, not with Prompto bearing down into him like this, and the contact between them isn’t enough -- never will be enough -- he wants skin against skin, wants Prompto’s hands and mouth on him -- 

Instead he gets a husky command against his cheek: “Stay.”

“But -- ”

Hard pinch to his nipple, and he thinks he can also feel the nail-marks that leaves on him, and his vision clears just enough that he can see the smirk of Prompto, the sweet sharp edge of him, as he says, “You want me to stop?” 

“Fuck no,” he all but gasps. “Please no.”

“So -- let me.”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond to that -- he only shouts, wordless strangled needy, as Prompto reaches right into his trousers and takes him in hand. Works him in short sharp strokes -- how, how does he do it -- Noctis closes his eyes and grits his teeth and fights to last -- wants nothing more than to be suspended in this moment forever, or for an entire night, and he hisses Prompto’s name desperately, frayed voice falling further apart.

“Give it to me, Noct, come on,” Prompto says, lilt in his words like he’s singing, and Noctis wants that, needs that, craves it like it’ll drive him crazy if he has to go without.

“I, I,” he begins, and he knows that cramp in his belly, tightening and building and clawing. He doesn’t know what the next words are. If there are any next words.

“You wanna be good for me, don’t you?”

“Yes -- fuck, yes,” and anything else he tries to get out is drowned in Prompto’s kiss, possessive, knowing -- sharp shock of need hitting him afresh as Prompto’s other hand moves away from his chest -- winds around his throat instead and he presses into that grip, lost and falling and buckling into his orgasm.

Only a moment or two to catch his breath and then he’s pulling Prompto back in, sloppy kiss, sloppy words against his freckles. “You want me to blow you here, or -- somewhere else? Or, or,” the idea hits him, a little late, a little slack-nerved, “hell, you could fuck me right here if you want.”

“Good idea but no,” breathy laughter, too sharp, too interested, and Noctis would laugh, too. “Not today. I’m not done with you yet. Not tonight.”

“Yes please,” he mutters, and he licks at the corner of Prompto’s mouth and lets himself be pulled up to his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> ninemoons42 on Tumblr: [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)


End file.
